


Hold me close and hold me fast

by bisexualcyborg



Category: The Hour
Genre: (how do I not know this?), (not on each other but obv on their respective husbands), 50's Fashion, Cuddling, Cunnilingus, Domestic Dates, Domestic Fluff, F/F, Falling In Love, Femslash, Fights, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Infidelity, Internalized Homophobia, Kinda, Kissing, Look I wanted to write 1k words of smut, Lots of cooking and baking and poetry, Mild Angst, Oral Sex, Smut, Stress Baking, and ended up with 4k words of relationship development, handjobs, i didn't ask for this, is that a thing?, or whatever it's called for people with vaginas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-19 00:09:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9408749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bisexualcyborg/pseuds/bisexualcyborg
Summary: Camille and Marnie meet again, by coincidence. They bond over their disappointing husbands, but what starts as a friendship meant to offer distraction and support quickly turns into something else. Through all their differences and all the things they have in common, they end up building a love story.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KeJ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeJ/gifts).



> Written for [my switi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeJ/pseuds/KeJ/works?fandom_id=721553) as a cheer-up prezzie. I can't believe this is the first fic for this ship???
> 
> Title from [the English version of La Vie En Rose](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8IJzYAda1wA).

Camille meets Marnie again in the corridors of the BBC building. Freddie hasn’t been home before 11pm in four days, and Camille is fed up with it, so she’s decided to just go pick him up after the program has aired. There’s a fifty percent chance it’s going to end in a full-blown public argument, but so be it. 

She passes Marnie in the corridor with the offices. She’s carrying a suit jacket over her arm. Her eyes are sad, but there is an angry set to her mouth. Camille recognises the expression all too well. Maybe that’s why she stops Marnie, or maybe it’s because she’s wearing a gorgeous blue dress that makes her look even more stunning. It’s the kind of dress would make Camille look like a little girl playing dress-up but on Marnie, it looks like it belongs. 

“Come to beg for a few scraps of attention from your husband too, have you?” Camille asks. She’s never been one for small talk, or for tact, for that matter. It was what Freddie liked about her, she thinks – if he ever liked _her_ at all, and not just the idea of coming home to Bel with a wife to make her jealous. She’s got to hand it to him: clearly, his tactic worked. 

Marnie starts. “Excuse me?” She looks genuinely offended – ah, the English upper classes. So reluctant to discuss the blatantly obvious – as if not talking about it makes it any less real.

“Oh, I mean no offence,” Camille says with a wry smile. “We’re in the same boat, you and I, aren’t we?” 

Marnie seems to relax marginally. “Have you come for Mr Lyon, then?” 

“ _Oui_ ,” Camille answers. She likes to keep up the pretence of the “purposefully French girl,” sometimes. “I don’t hold out much hope, though – he seems to prefer beautiful, driven producers to poetesses who play at revolution.”

There’s pity on Marnie’s face, and some bitterness, too.

“Then we truly are in the same boat, yes,” she says. She shifts the suit jacket on her arms and taps her heel on the tiled floor.

“Tell you what,” Marnie says, taking Camille’s arm with unexpected familiarity. “Let’s both forget our husbands for tonight. I know a delightful little café not very far from here – it won’t compare to what you were used to in Paris, I’m sure, but they make a wonderful sponge cake.”

Why not, Camille thinks. Freddie isn’t coming home with her anyway – if the program went well, he’ll want to celebrate; if it didn’t, he will dread the prospect of the inevitable fight waiting for him at home. And she’s too mad at him to let him ruin her evening, which will inevitably happen if she spends hours moping all by herself.

So she smiles at Marnie, and tells her, “With pleasure! I have a kind of baffled fascination with English cuisine.”

-

The café is very nice – exactly what she’d expect from a place Marnie likes. Lots of beige and light pink, lace naperons – frilly, but tastefully so. Camille, in her black turtleneck, feels less out of place than she’d expect.

The sponge cake is nice, too, though Camille generally prefers her patisseries less – moist. And thank god: they make her coffee black, without a drop of milk. 

“I watch your show, you know,” she tells Marnie while she’s stirring her second lump of sugar into her coffee. 

Marnie smiles. Her pleased surprise seems genuine. “You do? I wouldn’t have thought you were the type.”

“I like watching people cook,” Camille says, “even though I’ve always been terrible at it. Grand-maman used to let me watch her make crème brulée when we stayed with her in the country-side, during the war.”

Marnie nods, understanding. “I spent the war in the country-side too, with my mother. Papa insisted – he didn’t want us to stay in London. But we were ever so worried about him!”

Camille reaches out and gently pats Marnie’s hand. She knows their childhoods in the country had nothing to do with one another – Camille in her grandparents’ small farm, helping with the chickens and the vegetable gardens, while Marnie probably played cricket in a mansion with servants attending her every whim. Still, it’s a shared experience, in a sense – one more.

“You have a very soothing voice, too,” Camille says, returning to the previous topic. “It relaxes me when I’m writing.”

She doesn’t think she’s imagining the slight blush on Marnie’s cheeks. 

“Oh, that’s such a nice thing to say!” Marnie tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “It must be so very hard, writing poetry.”

“Not harder than cooking,” Camille answers. “Just – different.”

“I’d like to read your poems, some time,” Marnie says. “I’ve never read French poetry – my French is awfully lacking, I’m afraid.” Then she covers her mouth with her hand. “But maybe your poetry is too personal – I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to –“

Camille interrupts her. “Don’t worry! It’s my job, just like your cooking. It’s what I’m good at. It’s meant to be shared.” 

She says it even though she doesn’t really mean it. She’s got a poet’s trademark combination of arrogance and insecurity – she wants to share her work with the whole world, but she’s terrified of being judged. It’s easier when publishing a collection; the judgment of strangers hurts less, somehow. But for some reason, she wants to show her work to Marnie, personally. It’s the same kind of impulse as the one that made her read one of her poems to Freddie on the banks of the Seine.

“Oh, if you’re sure,” Marnie says, sounding relieved. “But then I must do something in return! Maybe,” – she falters, ducks her head, and that’s weird, because she’d struck Camille as a very composed person – “maybe I could cook you dinner, next week? At my place? And you could bring your poems and read them while I cook?”

“That would be lovely,” Camille says, and she means it.

Marnie gives Camille her address, and Camille giggles apologetically when she fumbles the amount of goodbye kisses. Again.

When she gets home, Freddie is there. He pointedly doesn’t ask her where she’s been. 

Good. Tonight, Camille doesn’t feel like fighting.

-

It becomes a regular thing. Every week, Camille grabs either of her published books and a bottle of French wine and shows up on the Maddens’ doorstep in a little black dress. She reads a few of her poems out loud while Marnie whips up creamy sauces and delicate desserts. They talk over dinner, about The Hour, about their husbands, about their childhoods. About books, too – Marnie’s surprisingly well-read in French, a lot more so than Camille is in English. Sometimes, Camille fits in a well-placed jab about Bel, but Marnie never gives echo to Camille’s bitter words. Soon, Camille stops: partly out of guilt, and partly because she cares increasingly less.

By tacit agreement, Camille always leaves before Hector comes home. 

After a while, Marnie starts using Camille as a test subject for the meals she’s planning out for her show. At first, she tries to make Camille guess the guest, but Camille’s knowledge of British celebrities and politicians is too limited and she doesn’t manage to guess even a single one. So Marnie makes her chop the vegetables instead. 

Camille brings her notebooks and reads the poems she’s working on to Marnie. Marnie’s French isn’t good enough for her to give advice on literary quality, but she’s a good judge of musicality and rhythm, and Camille finds she really likes being listened to. Freddie listens, too, but always to make some kind of remark or suggestion, or to use it as a starting point for one of his impassioned rants. Marnie just listens, and that makes it a lot easier to listen to her in turn.

Between the days with her activist friends and the nights with Marnie, Camille finds she’s getting used to London.

-

One night, she’s struggling with a verse than just won’t scan correctly, and Marnie laughs and tells her, “Leave it be, Camille. It’ll come to you spontaneously later.”

“You’re right,” Camille says, and she walks over to the stove where Marnie is heating up milk for her béchamel. She pours herself a glass of Bordeaux and then fills Marnie’s empty glass too. She hands it to Marnie carefully, scared of staining her pretty yellow blouse. 

Marnie turns around to accept the wine and suddenly her face is very, very close to Camille’s. Camille’s first instinct is to take a step back – she knows this too well. Too often, her friendships with women have fizzled out over a moment like this: her face too close to another girl’s, her hand on the small of their back, her fingers reaching to caress their cheek. Coming from Camille, with her short hair, her revolutionary tendencies and her tendency to wear trousers more often than dresses, things like that, things that many women do together without thinking about it twice, suddenly become threats. 

But Marnie doesn’t shrink back. She doesn’t even look away. So Camille moves closer, very slowly, and then their lips touch. 

It’s a soft kiss, hesitant but not reluctant. Marnie’s mouth is waxy with lipstick and she tastes a little like Bordeaux. Camille moves to put her hand on Marnie’s waist but then Marnie moves back, slips out from between Camille and the stove.

“Heaven, the milk!” she cries, and something twists inside Camille’s gut. The milk is not even close to boiling over.

Marnie takes the pan of the stove and sets it on the counter. She fusses with the lid – puts it on the pan, then takes it off again. Camille wants to run – take her book, slam the door behind her, not come back. 

She doesn’t move.

Marnie puts the lid on the pan again and turns back to Camille. 

“You’ll have to forgive me,” she says, taking her hand. “This is all – very new to me.”

Does she mean - ? Yes, she does, because she’s kissing Camille again and this time, when Camille puts her hand on her waist, she only moves closer. 

They only stop kissing when the smell of burning meat forces them to.

\- 

Camille comes over more often, now. Their husbands are barely ever home anymore, and neither of them cares at all. It just gives them more time together.

They sneak kisses during dinner, and hold hands over the table. They curl up on the couch to watch silly television programmes. Marnie makes crème brûlée, one evening, and two weeks later Camille writes her first poem in English. It’s bad, and she knows it, but Marnie claps and smiles and for a moment, it’s Camille’s favourite thing she’s ever written.

They fight, sometimes, too. Camille has always been unable to love someone without fighting with them. It isn’t shouting and throwing teacups like it is with Freddie – Marnie, ever composed and polite, avoids confrontation like the plague, and Camille doesn’t want to hurt her. 

The fights usually happen because Marnie said something so blatantly upper class it makes Camille’s skin crawl, or because Camille condescended towards English culture or literature, which unfailingly offends Marnie. But one day, it’s more than that.

They’re on the couch watching the news – not The Hour, never The Hour – and the news anchor talks about the attempts to decriminalise male homosexuality. 

Marnie scoffs at the gay man he interviews. “It’s unseemly.”

Shocked, Camille pulls away. “What do you mean?”

Marnie waves an elegant hand at the TV. “Well, it’s not right, is it?”

“Are _we_ “not right”, Marnie?” Fury rises in Camille’s throat. “Are we _unseemly_?” 

“It’s not the same!” Marnie protests.

“How isn’t it the same?” Camille asks, disbelieving. She’s let her voice rise louder than she usually does, with Marnie, but she can’t help it. 

Marnie just sits, quiet, her hands folded in her lap. Camille stands up, grabs her coat, and walks out the door. Marnie doesn’t stop her.

-

She stews over it for the entire night and the next day, too. She can’t believe Marnie said – thinks! – something so backwards, so bigoted. It _is_ the same as them, and if Marnie doesn’t realise that, Camille doesn’t think she wants to stay with her. 

She doesn’t go to Marnie’s house, that night. 

At half past nine, her doorbell rings. She goes down the stairs in her grey sweater – she hasn’t bothered to put on trousers all day. 

When she cracks the door open, trying to preserve her modesty, Marnie’s standing on her doorstep, carefully balancing three cardboard boxes that undoubtedly contain cakes.

She shrugs apologetically. “I bake when I’m nervous.”

Camille doesn’t open the door any further.

“Camille, I’m sorry,” Marnie says. “What I said was insensitive and wrong. It’s what I was taught all my life, but that’s no excuse. I was silly.“ She pauses, readjusts the boxes. “Will you let me in?”

Camille does. She takes one of the cakes and leads Marnie up the stairs. When they’re inside the flat, she puts the cake down on the rickety coffee table and gestures for Marnie to do the same.

“I –“ Camille starts, but Marnie cuts her off.

“I really am sorry. Everyone says it’s wrong, but I don’t want us – you and I – to be wrong, so it had to be different, didn’t it? If it isn’t the same, then we can’t be wrong, and I –“

“We aren’t wrong, Marnie.” Camille’s anger has completely disappeared. How stupid she’s been! She’s had years to get used to this, years to think about it, to learn to disregard what society thinks of people like her. She has friends who are like her, friends who support her and set an example. Marnie hasn’t. Marnie lives in a world where two men loving each other is a reason for disgust and outrage, and two women loving each other is too ridiculous an idea to even be talked about. This is all new for her, and like a complete cretin, Camille took offence and rode out on her high horse, leaving Marnie to come to terms with it all by herself.

_Idiote,_ she tells herself, and she reaches for Marnie’s hand.

“We aren’t wrong, Marnie,” she repeats. “I’m sorry. I got mad and didn’t think about how you were feeling. I just didn’t see how you could think it was different; I forgot how complicated it is, at first. I thought,” – she squeezes Marnie’s hand – “I thought if you scoffed at them, that meant you scoffed at us, too.”

“I know,” Marnie says, and she reaches out to touch Camille’s face. “I was stupid. I was wrong. I’m sorry.”

She shifts her weight nervously. Camille gets the impression there’s something else she wants to say.

“I thought a lot, today.” Marnie takes a shuddering breath. “I thought about how I said it was different because – well, it’s not two men loving each other that’s illegal, it’s them going to bed together.”

Camille wants to interrupt her, to lash out, to yell that that’s sheer hypocrisy, but she manages to keep her tongue in check.

“But that’s part of love, isn’t it?” Marnie continues. “For most people? And it’s not right that they don’t get that part. And I told myself it was different because we – you and I – we love each other – I think?”

She looks so fragile and hesitant, so unlike what Camille is used to from her. It breaks Camille’s heart.

“I do, yes,” she says, and pulls Marnie close.

“Oh,” Marnie breathes. “Good.”

Camille caresses her hair.

“Well,” Marnie says into Camille’s shoulder, and Camille smiles because for all their differences, this is something they have in common: the inability to stop talking when there’s something they want to say. “Well,” Marnie says, “today I realised that I couldn’t keep telling myself it was different, because,” – her arms tighten around Camille’s waist – “because unlike those men on the TV, we haven’t gone to bed together, but – but I want to.”

Camille pushes Marnie away slightly so she can look at her face. “Are you sure?”

Marnie looks back at her, composed again. “I am.”

“Are we – I mean – when? Do you –” It’s Camille’s turn to be flustered. This has never happened to her – usually, it just happens, or she’s the one to make the first move. She’s never had someone ask her, the way Marnie just did.

“Now?” Marnie asks. Her eyes are intense. “If you want to, of course – if you’re not mad anymore.”

“I’m not,” Camille says, and she means it. 

“ _Now_ , now?” she asks.

“Now, now,” Marnie replies, and kisses her.

They’ve exchanged heated kisses before, but this is different, because this time Camille knows the intention behind it. Camille throws her arms around Marnie’s shoulders and kisses her back almost desperately. 

Marnie splays her hands against Camille’s shoulderblades, pulling her closer. Camille closes her eyes, then opens them again. Marnie’s eyelashes fan against her cheeks, throwing a soft shadow over her high cheekbones. Somehow, it’s the most beautiful thing Camille has seen in ages. 

She runs her fingers over Marnie’s silky hair – carefully, so she doesn’t mess up her updo – and cups her face between her hands. The kiss grows less heated, turns into sweet, smaller pecks. 

Marnie was brave enough to broach the subject of sex first, so Camille feels like it’s her turn to make a move. She imagines herself pulling Marnie into her bedroom, and is suddenly acutely aware that she and Freddie don’t even own a proper bed – they sleep on a mattress laid out onto the bare floor. The contrast between their shabby flat and Marnie and Hector’s lavish, well-furnished house feels very striking.

“Uhm,” she tells Marnie, “this is where I’d ask you if you want to move to the bedroom, but – I’m afraid it’s not the most romantic setting.”

“Show me,” Marnie demands.

Camille takes her hand and leads her through the living room, into the bedroom. The mattress is bare, the covers thrown off haphazardly. There’s a mug of coffee on the floor next to it.

“But it’s charming!” Marnie beams at Camille. “So very _bohémien_!”

Camille bursts out laughing. Leave it to Marnie to conflate financial troubles with la vie bohème. Then again, she’s in good company on that front.

“Let’s be bohemian, then,” she says, and she throws herself onto the mattress. Marnie follows suit and lies down next to her. Camille turns towards her and starts kissing her face, her mouth, her cheek, her fluttering eyelashes. It’s always a bit strange, finding the right first steps to making love with someone new.

Marnie giggles and kisses back, placing her hand on the back of Camille’s neck. Emboldened, Camille starts kissing her way down her jaw. She nibbles on Marnie’s earlobe and Marnie shivers with pleasure, arching against her.

Marnie lies back onto the mattress and unbuttons the top of her blouse and oh, that’s – Camille hadn’t expected Marnie to be this confident, and her eagerness sends something fluttering in Camille’s chest.

She gently lowers herself onto Marnie and leaves a trail of kisses along her neck, her collarbones, the tops of her breasts. She’s always been a biter but she knows not to leave marks – not here. Maybe later.

Marnie hums softly and tangles her fingers in Camille’s hair. When Camille moves lower still and flicks her tongue over Marnie’s nipple through the pink silk of her blouse, Marnie’s humming turns into a little gasp. Camille smiles, pleased.

She moves up again to kiss Marnie’s mouth, and Marnie returns the kiss with enough passion to leave Camille breathless. When they pull away, Camille slithers down Marnie’s body as fast as possible. She finds the faster she is, the less time she has to feel awkward. 

She looks up at Marnie. “ _Je peux?_ ”

Marnie nods, looking a little wide-eyed. Camille looks at her for a few more seconds, making sure there’s no hint of hesitation on Marnie’s face, and then she ducks underneath Marnie’s skirt. 

The fabric is heavy over her head and the petticoat scratches slightly against her skin. She can’t help feeling like a kid playing hide and seek, and she giggles to herself. Marnie laughs in response, and then pulls her skirt up.

“I couldn’t see you like that,” she says, looking down at Camille. “Seemed like a waste.”

Something warm unfolds in Camille’s ribcage, and she beams up at Marnie. When she does, her breath catches in her throat. Marnie looks impossibly tempting like this – her blouse open almost to her navel, her heavy pink skirt tucked up around her waist, the perfect symmetry of its pattern broken by the way the fabric folds and bunches. 

“You’re beautiful,” she says, and for all her love of poetry, she can’t think of a phrase that expresses her feelings more fully.

Marnie smiles and reaches down to caress her cheek. Camille takes that as her cue and lowers her head. She places light kisses all over Marnie’s inner thighs, then grows bolder, nibbling at the delicate skin there. Marnie reacts with what sounds like an approving moan, so Camille bites a bit harder, hard enough to leave a mark. The sight of it makes wetness pool between Camille’s legs.

She trails her fingers along Marnie’s thigh, under the slip she’s rucked up along with her dress, towards the silkiness of her light pink panties.

“Of course you’d match your panties to your clothes,” she says, shooting Marnie a teasing smile.

“Some of us,” Marnie replies, and the breathlessness in her voice makes Camille feel a bit smug, “don’t consider a grey sweater and white panties the height of fashion.”

Camille bites the top of Marnie’s thigh in retaliation, but Marnie doesn’t seem to mind. Hooking her thumb in the high waistband of Marnie’s underwear, Camille looks up at her questioningly. When Marnie nods, she pulls her panties down and off, and let them drop onto the mattress. 

She kisses the curls between Marnie’s legs and keeps kissing her way downward. When she flicks her tongue, Marnie gasps and tugs at her hair, so Camille does it again, and again. It had been too long – she’d almost forgotten how much she liked it, the slickness, the taste, the feel of soft skin against the sides of her face. 

She kisses and licks and sucks for what feels like hours, Marnie’s breathy moans growing increasingly high-pitched. Her hips shift incessantly; she’s pushing herself against Camille’s mouth, and Camille answers by licking deeper. 

She traces her tongue around Marnie’s clit and Marnie gasps in staccato. Camille wants to push a hand between her own thighs but she doesn’t, she can’t, she’s too wrapped up in Marnie. Her body tenses and relaxes in turn beneath Camille’s hands and Camille wants it to last forever.

In this regard as in others, Marnie is a godsend, because it’s several more minutes before her body arches against Camille’s mouth, her fingers grasping at the bedsheets. Camille’s head is locked between Marnie’s straining thighs but she can hear Marnie’s harsh, breathy sigh of pleasure, and she moans softly in reply. 

Marnie relaxes and looks down at Camille, smiling radiantly. Camille moves up and lays her head against Marnie’s shoulder. She can hear Marnie’s heartbeat gradually slowing down as Marnie strokes her hair.

“I don’t quite know –“ Marnie whispers, and for a second, Camille is a bit apprehensive. Is this going to be one of those situations where the woman she’s sleeping with doesn’t want to reciprocate? She knows it’s Marnie’s first time with a woman, and she understands that, but it’s happened before that a first time turned into a second, and a third, and a tenth, before Camille got fed up with it and moved on to something else. She knows some people prefer only giving or only receiving, but she’s not one of those people.

“I don’t quite know how to do this,” Marnie continues, “but – maybe you could show me?”

Camille could slap herself. She’d assumed, stupidly, based on Marnie’s dresses and makeup and lack of experience. She should know better than to jump to conclusions based on stupid stereotypes.

She smiles up at Marnie. “Of course.”

She rolls off Marnie and lies back, taking Marnie’s hand. Gently, she guides Marnie’s hand into her panties. Marnie lets Camille place her fingers where she wants them, and then she starts moving them. She’s slow, at first, careful, but soon she grows more confident. Her touch is lighter than Camille’s is when she touches herself, but the resulting sensation is no less lovely – softer and sharper all at once. Camille moans quietly, lips parting, and closes her eyes.

When she opens them again a few seconds later, Marnie is looking down at her with an intense, almost curious expression. Behind the intensity, her eyes are soft and fond, and Camille reaches up to caress her cheek.

“A bit faster,” she breathes, and Marnie complies. Camille moans again and bites her lip.

It’s not long before pleasure peaks. Camille tightens her fingers around Marnie’s wrist and throws her head back, her mouth falling open in a silent O. Her entire body is pulsing.

When it’s over, she finds Marnie still looking at her with that hint of wonder on her face. Camille pulls her down into her arms and holds her close.

They lie there for a while, breathing in tandem. They both know they don’t have much time – Freddie will be home soon – but neither of them wants it to be over just yet. 

Marnie hums a few bars from a familiar song, and Camille laughs softly.

“I wouldn’t have taken you for a Piaf fan.”

Marnie shrugs. “Who isn’t?”

Camille knows many people who aren’t, but they’re snobs anyway.

Suddenly, she remembers something. 

“We haven’t even eaten your cakes yet!” she tells Marnie, hoping that might buy them a bit more time together.

“You’re right!” Marnie braces herself on one elbow. “Well, I guess we got distracted.” Her smile is happy and teasing, but it doesn’t last long.

“But I have to go, don’t I?”

Camille doesn’t want to say yes, but she knows she can’t say no.

“You don’t have to work tomorrow?” she asks instead.

Marnie shakes her head.

“Then I’ll come by in the morning with your cakes. We can eat them as a decadent breakfast.”

Marnie laughs, looking happy again. “How very French of you, _chérie_.”

“Most French people I know have little more than coffee for breakfast, I’ll have you know,” Camille replies. 

Marnie reaches for her panties and stands up to put them back on. “Patisseries for breakfast still feels more French than English.”

Camille rises too and helps Marnie straighten her clothes. Marnie gives her one last kiss, and Camille makes it last as long as she dares. Afterwards, they go down the stairs to the front door together. 

On the doorstep, Marnie kisses her goodbye on the cheek, and Camille is painfully reminded of all the sacrifices this thing between them will require. But when Marnie turns back to her just before she gets into her parked car and asks, “Tomorrow?”, Camille knows they’re sacrifices she’ll gladly make.

She blows Marnie a kiss – she’s French, she can get away with it. 

“Tomorrow.”


End file.
